


Contagious Insanity

by orphan_account



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Murder, Cocaine, Descent into Madness, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Gambling, Hallucinations, Insane!Waylon, Las Vegas, M/M, Miles U Charmer, Murder, On the Run, Prostitution, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Recovery, Teen Pregnancy, Teenagers, This Fic Gives Me Anxiety, Torture, Triggers, speaking of which
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7182125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two months since the riot, and Waylon is no better off away from Mount Massive than he was fighting for his life in its halls. Now he spends his days obsessing over the death of Jeremy Blaire and wondering where his wife is, how well she's fared running from their shared enemy, and when Miles Upshur is thrown into the mix, his somewhat stable existence is thrown into chaos. With his identity erased and a new name erected to preserve his new life, Waylon Park finds himself still running. Running from Murkoff, from memories, from madness. The blood and gore of Mount Massive has long since been buried, but it lives on in his mind and in the mind of the riot’s survivors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long Drive

**Author's Note:**

> PREPARE YOUR BODIES FOR MY FICTION

"You press that button, there's no going back, Mr. Park. There's enough hard evidence in that video file to make a world of shit for our friends at Murkoff." The shadowy figure, Julian, says softly, "You got out of Mount Massive alive, and we've done everything in our power to cover your tracks, but our enemies are twitchy and malicious corporate paranoiacs with resources you're too moral to imagine. You won't be the only target." He pauses "Anyone you care about, **your wife** , **your children** , they'll be nothing to Murkoff but ways to hurt you. I need you to understand the bridge you're crossing here. You will do irrevocable damage to the company, you might even get close to something like justice, but...Once you click upload, your life is over. Everyone you love is fucked. But it's the right thing to do. Is hurting Murkoff worth that much to you?"

Waylon wavers, holding his hand above the keyboard with his index finger stretched toward the enter key. The gravity of this one decision grips him like a vice. On one hand, he's reluctant to press it. His family is the only thing he has left at this point- his mother and father deceased and his best friend, David Annapurna, missing. Granted, Lisa had wanted a divorce before this, but a small, morbid voice in the back of his head told him that maybe a tragedy destroying everything they've built will push her back into his arms.  On another hand, Julian is right- destroying a company that destroys thousands of lives can only be just. He can feel the righteousness of that path pushing his finger toward the enter key, and suddenly- it's done. The screen pops to life with a loading screen, and Waylon doesn't wait for the bar to fill up before slamming the laptop shut.

 _Once you click upload, your life is over. Everyone you love is fucked._ Julian's words haunt him with astonishing power. Waylon leans back in his chair and absorbs the full weight of his decision, different feelings shaking his previously sheltered mind. Fear. Regret. Excitement. Before the riot, Waylon's life had been confined to a small cubicle sorting files until there was a technical emergency. After the riot, he was a hollow, anxious creature he barely recognized. Even though he feared for his family and himself, he had been longing for this moment since Jeremy first spat in his face with that cheesy, stereotypically animated "Somebody's been telling stories outside of class." Justice, it seemed, would be a lot sweeter than first expected. Julian leaned over the desk and slid the laptop back toward himself. "You're a brave man, Mr. Park. Follow me, please."

The retired technician took a moment to exhale out some of his adrenaline before getting up out of his seat. The room they had been in was dark, but as was the rest of the house- he followed Julian and the laptop through a darkened hall toward the sitting room; each of the windows had been thoroughly shuttered, and the lights dimmed. Waylon had to squint to see the shadowy people around him- the people who were, at this very moment, creating a new identity for both him, and a mysterious other man on the opposite side of the room. His identity was concealed by a thick black curtain splitting the room in two. Julian guided Waylon onto a couch and a thick stack of papers was thrust onto the cushion beside him. "Your homework, Mr. Park." Julian said with a humorous edge to his nasal voice, "Or should I say, Alex Lafayette."

"My new name." Waylon affirms, picking the stack of paper up and setting it into his lap. "What's the rest of this stuff?"

"Medical records, birth certificates, social security numbers and tax records." He sounds smug. Waylon frowns.

"You guys are thorough, aren't you?"

Julian grins with glee. Waylon studies the shine on his teeth reflecting the light from multiple computers and machines around them before the media leak "artist" closed his mouth again. Waylon squints down at the stack of paper, bound with a few rubber bands and a gallon-sized plastic bag taped to the top file. A driver's license, a credit card, and a wad of cash. The retired tech slid the driver's license out of the plastic bag and held it up to his face, eyeballing the picture of him that Julian had insisted on taking before he'd leaked the data. Everything besides the name and the address was spot on- the birthday and the biological details. Even his signature had been expertly forged. Waylon sat on the edge of the couch just staring at the license, barely hearing when Julian cleared his throat. He'd said something.  
"Hmm?"

"Your time with us is almost up, Mr. Park." He repeats, not seeming to mind Waylon's inattentiveness. "Do you have any questions about your new life?"

Waylon inhales slowly, thinking about the current situation, "Will I ever see my family again?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Park." 

The retired tech, now a renamed, redefined man, thought about what he could ask next. He supposed "what now?" might be a proper question, but a very vague one, at that. Waylon slid his new driver's license back into the plastic bag and thought some more. After coming up with nothing, he decided to go ahead with the one that had first popped into his head after Julian's answer. _**"What now?"**_ Julian seemed to freeze right in place, remaining utterly silent and completely motionless before the only answer he could think of to such a vague question finally surfaced: "We move on with our lives, Mr. Park. I will go on to continue leaking information, and you will disappear. Waylon Park doesn't exist anymore, you understand me? You will find a place where anybody can disappear and you will make a life there as Alex Lafayette."  
"Where do you suppose I do that?"

"If I were you, I'd go to Las Vegas. Even the most famous people can go missing there in a flash."

"Got it."

"Any other questions for me, Mr. Park?"

Waylon shook his head. Across the room, the black curtain slid to the side and a few men stepped from the space behind. Identical to this, excepting that there was more machinery. The tech couldn't keep his eyes away from the other mystery survivor, even when he was rushed out of his seat and his paperwork was snatched up and shoved into a backpack identical to that of the other man. The pack was set onto his shoulder and he was shoved toward Julian and the front door, standing behind the taller, more muscled survivor of the riot. Waylon- Alex -silently followed them out to a sleek car with tinted windows. All the preparation had led up to this- as soon as he got into that car, as soon as he buckled in, he was Alex Lafayette. As far as Murkoff knew, Waylon Park was both legally and physically dead.  
Forever.

He slides into the back seat after the first man, inhales and exhales. Julian leans into the door, gives both men a look, and sticks his hand out for Waylon to shake. He does.  
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. **Lafayette.** " He leans further and catches the first man's hand, "And you too, Mr. **Smith.** " The door slams shut, and Waylon watches the house, his old life, and everything he had ever known disappear into the sparkly blue carpet of the night sky. Rows of randomly planted lodgepole pines jutted up from either side of the road, furred only towards the top and dripping with autumnal frost. Their evergreen needles blended into the dark, becoming a part of the sprawling fabric of Colorado's fall nights. Waylon watched them whir by, practicing his name as a mantra while he stared out the window.

"You're Waylon Park, Right?" 

The tech jumps. The silence of his companion has sheltered him until now.

"...Jumpy..."

"I'm not!" Waylon whines, and then composes himself again. "Ahem....I mean.... I'm not jumpy, you just surprised me." He paused and took time to appraise the man's appearance. A small grin, set into a young face. Deep olive skin and glossy black hair. Waylon thought that he looked like somebody who had seasoned experience on a vineyard in italy. The man held out his hand in a similar gesture to Julian's earlier, and Waylon took it, not noticing until after he pulled his hand away that the survivor had a few less fingers than normal. "I'm Miles. Miles Upshur. My new name is Ryan Smith. Your new last name is Lafayette...?" Miles Upshur. The name sounded familiar. Then again, he had emailed multiple journalists that night in the asylum. "Yeah. I'm supposed to be Alex Lafayette from now on."  
"I like that name. At least these bastards chose good ones."

Bastards. Waylon frowned at that. These 'bastards' had been the only thing good since that night. "...So...where are you going to go after this?" He paused a minute, realizing that the question was a bit personal, "Sorry if that was too personal a question, I-" Miles lifted a hand to stop him. "It's fine, Waylon. I was told to go with you. Julian thinks it would be better to stick together, so...the more apt question would be- where are _you_ going?"

"Julian said that Las Vegas was my best bet to completely disappear."

"Just like a stuck-up, white-collar business douche to choose somewhere glittery and expensive."

"You...uh...Really think those things about him?"

"I think that about all of them," Miles sighed, fidgeting his remaining digits in his lap. "It makes no difference whether they help you or not. They only want you to give them things." He paused, tugging uncomfortably on his jeans, "This douche gave us things so we would give him the fame for ruining Murkoff."

Waylon pursed his lips, "I...guess."  
There's a moment of silence between them so thick you could cut it with a knife. Waylon looks back toward the window and watches the pines whip by. It had been two months since the riot, give or take a few days, and still everything looked the same as it had then. Frost just barely touching trees that should be covered in snow by now. Trembling pine needles flitting to the ground like evergreen fairies. Everything glistens with the moisture of new rain. There's blood on his patient unifor- No. Waylon shook the memory away before it could overtake him once more. That part of his life was over. Instead he focused on dispelling the awkward aura that had overtaken the car for the moment.  
"Do you...uh...have any family you're leaving behind, Miles?"

Miles looked over. Waylon saw his reflection in the window and did the same. The reporter shrugged, "Not really."  
  
"No kids?"  
  
"Not that I know of. There is a very good chance I've sired a few illegitimate kids, though. What about you?"

Waylon's expression darkened, "A wife. Two kids. One more on the way when the riot happened. I don't know if it's a boy or a girl because I haven't been able to talk to Lisa. The ones I do know about are John and Peter. Twins. Except John was born with a cleft palate and Peter... " Waylon paused, "Listen to me. I'm rambling. I'm sorry, Miles, just...excuse me, please... I tend to talk a lot when I'm nervous."  
"You're nervous?"

"A little. I miss my family and I'm worried that something's going to happen to them."

Miles pursed his lips, "oh...Well...that sucks. I hope your wife turns out alright. And the kids." Waylon tried to take his wish for good luck toward his family a little more serious than it had come out; sure, Miles was a bachelor and probably wouldn't know the joys of a family until he was well older than...(what...his mid twenties?) but sometimes you have to feel a little empathy as a human being. Even toward people you only just met. Waylon nodded and said his brief thank yous before he looked away again. His heart ached for his quiet little flagstone home, burlap furniture and ugly brown-green walls. Lisa and the boys. He felt the need to hold them all tight and never let them go again.  
_I fucked up, Lisa. I fucked up....I'm sorry...._

The Tech takes a break from his road hypnosis to study Miles' reflection in the window. Miles had been looking over at him before. Upon discovery, he glanced down and cleared his throat. After a moment he lifts his gaze, and oh. Oh. His eyes are staring right into Waylon's godforsaken soul, or maybe deeper than that, soft and inviting, his plump bottom lip playing between his white teeth, lips curved in a suave smile. Waylon is shell-shocked for the few moments he's staring into the reflection's eyes, color spreading across his cheeks before looking away again. He's surprised at himself- he barely knows the man in the car beside him. And he's married. With kids. He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, promising himself never to let his judgement slip and let himself be attracted to Miles... "Ryan Smith"...Upshur.

"Las Vegas here we come, huh?"  
"Y-Yeah." Waylon agrees, his spirit wavering the slightest bit. He wished now that he'd asked Julian if he could call Lisa, but it was too late now.  
The journey had already begun.

-

Six hours in and three stops for gasoline had the survivors exhausted. They had barely dented the halfway mark, another seven-or-so hours left to go to reach Vegas, not including traffic, bathroom breaks, and stops for gasoline. Hours of sitting in the same position and making awkward small talk had leeched Waylon and Miles of energy, but on the bright side, Waylon now knew more about the man he'd be spending a great deal of time with. He was twenty five and grew up in the rural ranch territory of Blanco texas, had a knack for writing and sarcasm, and a laughable fetish for Nordstrom leather jackets. Waylon, in turn, had told Miles about his house in boulder, his time working as a "Computer Nerd", as Miles put it, and random stories from the past twelve years of his marriage to Lisa. But even after their getting to know each-other, there was still the awkward rift of repressed attraction and distaste.

 It was time to stop for Gasoline, at last. Waylon slung his backpack off his shoulder and onto the seat next to him, stepping out of the Toyota and closing the door as quietly as he could to avoid the sleeping Miles Upshur. He walked up to the squatty building slowly, reanimating his stiff legs a little at a time. Inside, there wasn't much to see- short rows of snack foods, fridges driven into the wall empty aside from the non-alcoholic beverages that generally could be found. The cashier was a sleazy looking man- with grease burned hands, curly black hair stuck to his shiny forehead with sweat and a chapped leer on his lips; that and he stared at Waylon the minute he entered the gas station. Waylon walked past the cashier and toward the aisles of foodstuffs, browsing to avoid keeping eye-contact with the gross man.

Eventually time ran out on him and he ended up grabbing a few calorie-packed snacks and taking them up to the cashier. He had grabbed a kingly feast of three packages of Sno Balls, one box of Ho-Hos, and a six-pack of Mountain Dew. The cashier's eyes stayed on him the entire time he was ringing up the junk food, breathing excessively through his mouth and occasionally commenting on Waylon's spooked expression. Waylon didn't say anything in return. He bagged up the snacks and made a break for the car, dumping them all out on his backpack as soon as he finally slid into his seat and slammed the door closed. Miles jumped to life. "Are we...there yet...?"  
"Sorry for waking you." He apologized. Miles only grumbled and sat up, blinking at the mountain of junk.

"What's all this?"

Waylon pushed one of the plastic packages of Sno Balls toward Miles as the engine of the camry purred to life. "I was hungry and I figured that you might be, too."

Miles nodded in approval, leaning back against his seat and taking a bite of his first Sno Ball (they come in packages of two) and moaning. Both the driver and Waylon laughed at Miles' behavior, but the reporter smiled good naturedly and said with a mouthful of coconut and chocolate, "Man, I haven't had anything but oatmeal and rice since the riot. This is the best tasting Sno Ball I've ever had in my life..." Waylon grinned and uncapped one of the bottles of Mountain Dew. "Glad I got enough for you too, then." The reporter stuffed the first sphere of coconut and chocolate into his mouth and went for the second, rousing more laughter from both the driver and Waylon again. He wolfed the second one down and snatched a bottle of mountain dew from the six-pack to wash down the thick marshmallowy treats.

"Okay....Maybe I should have gotten some more food." Waylon joked, not really meaning it. If he had to spend another minute in the same room with that creepy cashier, he might have just bolted without paying for the snacks. The reporter mumbled a muffled agreement with an open mouth. What's Lisa doing now? Waylon wonders. Is she also in a toyota, John and Peter crushed up against her, with a new name and a new location? Does she have a backpack full of records for both her and the boys? And then the more dark thoughts crept into his mind. Did Murkoff have her? Was she being tortured for information on his location? He felt sick. The unknown was killing him. And he was about to continue with the torturous questions when Miles interrupted again.  
"Can I have this next thing of Sno Balls?"

He rolled his eyes and nodded. "Go ahead, Miles."  
_Thank you for distracting me, Miles._

"Thanks, man."  
_No problem, Techie._

Heavy weights slowly set themselves on Waylon's eyelids. They had left when it was dark- around eight pm central time -and it had been six hours. Roughly...four in the morning, now. Waylon groaned and pushed the snacks toward Miles, who slid them closer, greedily. The tech leaned his head against the cool glass window, feeling the skin on his cheek prickle with cold; he leaned his face closer and inhaled. The sill smelled like new leather. Waylon let his eyelids fall closed. He had only meant to rest his eyes, but when he reopened them it was daylight and Miles had long since finished the snacks Waylon had bought him. The reporter now happily munched on a bag of junk food he'd bought for himself- a king's feast of hostess products and energy drinks. Miles smiled at him, his cheeks puffed up.

The driver, whom he had come to know as 'Tracy' (Yes, his name was Tracy, as he explained earlier that he was named to coexist with his older sister, Stacy), had stopped in a parking lot to drink coffee and relax after the long night of driving. Waylon felt bad for him. As far as he knew, there were still a few hours to go in order to reach Vegas and he was the only driver that would be transporting them there. Tracy spent a few minutes simply clasping his cup of coffee and staring out the windshield, eyelids drooping over dark brown irises. Not the beautiful chocolate brown of most people, but a muddy mix of ochre and umber. The slera of his eyes were light yellow and teary at the corners.  
Being the selfless man he was, Waylon tapped on Tracy's shoulder and waited for him to turn around before giving him a soft,  
"Do you want me to drive? You look tired."

Tracy sputtered something about it being against the rules, but Waylon shushed him. "I won't tell. Let me drive."

Reluctantly, the driver unbuckled with one hand and balanced his coffee in the other. Urged on by Waylon's erratic nodding, Tracy slipped out of the driver's seat into the parking lot and opened Waylon's door for him. The tech stepped out and slid into the driver's seat, gripping the wheel hard. A plastic package flipped over his shoulder and into his lap, one of the snacks that Miles had bought during the three-hour-or-so span that Waylon had slept. A small bag of cheddar-cheese flavored combos. Waylon shrugged and ripped the bag open, putting the Toyota in drive before his hand dug in for a good amount and shoved the snacks into his mouth. Behind him, Tracy was asleep in mere moments. A smile crossed Waylon's face- knowing that the riot hadn't taken this aspect of his personality away.

"How long until Vegas?" Miles asked from behind.

Waylon shrugged and looked at a sign on the side of the road. "We're in Beaver....so....maybe three or four hours."

Miles groaned. "Too long..."

A roll of his eyes. Waylon leaned back against the leather seat and prepared for the long drive ahead.

 

Too long, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is rather uneventful. But you gotta get through the boring shit to get to the kick-ass Michael Bay Explosions


	2. Electric

Welcome home, the mat says. Waylon stares at it as he walks in through the door of the motel lobby, a seedy room only just above a smoke lounge. Scuffed wooden floors and filled ashtrays on cheap wooden tables scratched heartlessly by countless people putting their boots up; the couches are leather- and time hasn't been kind to them. Multiple rips and tears spill couch stuffing to the floor. Waylon skirts a nasty looking stain on the welcome mat and steps in, allowing Tracy and Miles to pass him. It takes five minutes of speaking to the receptionist in the lobby to actually get a room key even after answering countless questions, but thank god, Miles finally has the key before Waylon loses himself to anxiety and makes a break for it.

They were given the key to Room 2B. Waylon had hoped that the room would look nicer than the lobby, and, thankfully, he wasn't disappointed. It looked as if the rooms were taken better care of than the lobby itself- clean (albeit shabby) wood floors identical to those downstairs, a leather couch (not ripped, thankfully) and two beds dressed in royal blue sheets and gray cotton comforters. Two beds. Not three. Waylon stared at the double queen beds for a moment on his way in, setting his backpack down next to the curio where the television was being held. Not even a high-res one, either. The kind that you needed to lean forward and squint at to see the picture, and was hell on the eyes even if you _could_ see it. Miles and Tracy shuffled in after him, remarking on the room's comparative niceties.

" _Damn_ , look at the TV." Miles pokes at the glass screen with a snort, "It's fuckin' ancient."

Tracy was second to do exactly as Miles had done, tapping and prodding at the coke-bottle glass. He chuckles and turns away from it, having nothing to say, and collapses on the bed furthest from Waylon and the front entrance. After a long, twelve-hour drive, even with the sleep that Waylon had allotted him, Tracy's out like a light, and Miles follows soon after. He takes the couch instead of the other bed in a silent, but kind gesture. The tech snaps out of his fog, drags his backpack to rest against the bed and collapses into it, not bothering to get under the blankets, much like Tracy.  
Even though it was the middle of the day, and light was pouring in through the windows, he fell into sleep's gentle clutches easily and cordially. The embrace of good dreams wrapping him.

_The autumn sky is a mess of patchy rain clouds and the scarlet pigments of morning, welcoming and kind on his skin as it pours like water through the jeep's windshield. His leg is supposed to be hurting, but this is a dream. He can't feel it. Instead, he can feel remorse welling deep inside. Like blood. Like he's internally bleeding regret. He should have stopped to save that man. Even if he was a monster. It had haunted him for a long time, but he supposed that it was time to move on now. By now, the man splattered on the steps is dead._

**_Not dead. Here. Here in this room._ **

_**You can hear me, can't you, Waylon Park?** _

_"-Who's there?" He cries, "Show yourself!"_

_**You don't need to see me to know who I am, Mr. Park.** _

_"Who....who are you?"_

**_Why, I'm Jeremy Blaire. Don't you remember me?_ **

Waylon rockets up in bed, violently inhaling and  exhaling air through his nostrils. The television has since been turned on and the light that once streamed through the window in gold shafts has turned into darkness. Miles is awake and under the blankets in Waylon's bed, but Tracy is still asleep. A glance to his watch tells Waylon that it is once again three in the morning. He and Tracy slept from noon to three am- a hefty sum of about fifteen hours. And Tracy was still asleep. Miles is watching some ridiculous late-night comedy on the television. Or, at least, Waylon thinks it's a comedy. The screen on the television is so grainy that you can barely tell what's going on, save for the audio.

Static prickles in the Tech's ears and gets gradually more coarse as he gets closer to Miles.

"Why are you in my bed...?"

"I got cold on the couch." He mumbles, not looking away from the television.

"Couldn't you have....you know....climbed in with Tracy or something?"

Miles turned over, propping himself up on an elbow. He leaned in close, breath exhaling static and eyes buzzing with electricity. Waylon shrank back instinctively. The reporter gave a little curved smile and murmured a soft, "Do you have a problem being in the same bed as me, Waylon?"  
Waylon. On Miles' lips his name sounded both profane and yet strangely beautiful, "N-no...." 

The smile grew wider, wider still, and then completely melted back into calm. "Good. Now go back to sleep or...watch tv.....whatever it is that you computer nerds do."

"Oh...a-alright, I guess..." Waylon scoots further away from the reporter, curling up on the opposite edge of the bed to avoid more contact. He doesn't like the sparks of energy flying off of Miles's  smile, or the electric intensity of his eyes. In a way, he supposes, it's like looking into a computer or a television screen. The same artificial life lies there. Ever deceitful. Waylon's eyes are still heavy with sleep, so he closes them. He wonders who Miles is behind the screen as he falls asleep again.

**_Mr. Park. So good to see you again. It's been lonely since you fed me to the Walrider._ **

_"I didn't..."_

**_Of course you did. Justify it however you want, but you let that machine rip me open._ **

_"You were going to stab me...kill me...I didn't know what  to-"_

**_Save it, Park. I don't have time for excuses._ **

_"What are you here for, then? Can I...Can I see you?"_

Waylon wakes again thinking on the futility of trying to see something that isn't real, his brain riddled with fuzzy  lines and furred voices. The whispers of Jeremy Blaire, and then of others. It doesn't take long to figure out that the voices were only dreams, perhaps deeply-rooted trauma linking him to the death of his boss, and for him to shelf them away like nothing important. Both Miles and Tracy were awake upon Waylon's second return to reality, the driver and contact for Julian already having bought breakfast from a small restaurant a few streets away. Thankfully, he'd been gracious enough to get Waylon a cup of coffee in a styrofoam mug and a small paper bag of donut holes.

 _Dreams are weird_ , He reminded himself, clasping his coffee in both hands. _It's nothing. Just trauma.  
...Right?_

Jeremy's voice had seemed so real. So painfully mocking with its playful, throaty drawl and formal use of his name. Just as his boss had talked in life. Waylon drew into himself, taking brief sips of his coffee and leaving the white-powdered pastries untouched. Neither Tracy nor Miles said a word to him. And perhaps that was best- Waylon supposed that if he talked to anyone right now, it would be only to ask what the dreams meant and would likely confuse the shit out of them. He's across the bed from Miles, but he can feel the electric pulses throbbing through his body. Feeling like Jeremy in his nightmare.  
What was this? Some sick joke?

People were dead- Jeremy was dead -and the strange hum of energy that wafted off of his dead boss' lips also wafted off of Miles Upshur. The man who had very subtly threatened him last night. 

_"No One can know. No One!" Jeremy sobbed, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. Blood poured from between his fingers, knotted deeply into his waistcoat jacket and button-up. Once expensive fabrics turned carelessly to rags with rips and blood and dirt. His knife hand trembled, blade flickering with light and shimmering with red. He looks up, but doesn't meet Waylon's eyes. Instead he looks past, past to where a black cloud extends its welcoming tendrils of darkness.  
_

_"oh, god....what the fu-"_

_The humming creature passes him, choosing to grab Jeremy by the shirt, shake him around, and then force him up into the ceiling for his final moment. Their eyes meet. Jeremy looks into Waylon's with an emotion he's never seen before on his boss' face: regret. Remorse. Apology. All of this plays out in the single second before Jeremy implodes and his guts are splattered all over._

**_"Oh god, oh christ in heaven, how did it get out?!"_ **

He knew for a fact that Jeremy was dead. He had to be. His rib cage (heart, lungs, and stomach included) had landed just feet away from him after. No person could live through that. It simply wasn't possible. So why was he getting worked up over a dream? Trauma victims often hallucinate, as he did, and he took it as that- filing the thought of Jeremy's death away with the rest. But it just kept resurfacing. The final look. The final expression and the final words were what got to Waylon the most- blue eyes full of fear, a ghostly swarm holding him to the ceiling, saying his final goodbye to the man whom he had condemned to die.

"...Waylon? Are you alright...?" He heard Tracy ask through the fog. Waylon looked in the direction of the sound but his eyes were stained by the static face of the Walrider; his hands went up to cover his eyes, shrouding them in the cooling darkness. "I'm....I'm alright, Tracy. Don't worry about me."

"You've been staring at the wall for an hour."

"...Really?" He asks, allowing one of his hands to slip off his eye. He peeked around, the fog of crackling electricity fading. Tentatively, he uncovered and opened his other eye. The same. Across the room, Miles was watching him intently; Waylon had no memory of his leaving the bed, only that he had started into his thinking about Jeremy's death and he had disappeared and reappeared eight feet away. A smile crossed Miles' lips. And Waylon's analogy about looking into a television screen became apparent again. Miles had the expression of a cheerful man, but his eyes were vacant. There is nothing behind them but a veined screen. Waylon finds himself transfixed by it.

\--"Waylon!"

"Hmm?" 

"Are you really okay?" Tracy was frowning at him now, deep lines on his face creased with worry. "You seem....off....somehow. What's troubling you?"

Waylon shook his head. "Nothing, Tracy. I promise. I've just been tired since we left Sterling. And unfocused. I need a walk or something..." He and Miles keep eye contact, "Get fresh air. Maybe jog." Waylon can see the absolute nothing in the reporter, burning directly into his soul. He has to look away again before allowing a small, "I'll be back within the hour." to escape. Tracy is silent. Waylon takes it as his chance to escape the small motel room, if only for a moment.

"Keep a phone with you." Tracy insists, holding out a small disposable black brick, "Just in case."

After a lecture on staying safe and not arousing too much suspicion from Tracy, The Tech reluctantly takes it, sliding the disposable phone into his pocket. Tracy wishes him safety, and from the corner of the motel room, Miles, who has been silent up until now, offers a small, prickly, "Stay safe, Waylon."

"I will. Don't worry. I'll call if I need help."  
"Be back before the hour mark." Tracy says, "Otherwise I'll come looking for you."

"Alright, Trace. I'll be back."

-

It started snowing just as Waylon got out of the parking lot of the motel. Not the fluttery, dusty snow of the silver screen but the wet, cold reality. He crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands into his armpits, lifting his head to look up at the pale morning sky; soft tufts of snow tangled into his hair, which had grown long after two months without tending. It had already been long before, granted, enough to put his hair up in  a topknot every so often -but when it wasn't up, it fanned in silky, strawberry waves to the halfway point on his neck. Waylon remembers his friend, David, used to pull on locks of his hair to get his attention when he was too focused on his work.

_Snow in Vegas. David would have liked that. He loved snow._

A smile comes to Waylon's face at the thought of David Annapurna, lighting his features with a curl of the lips and a flash of white teeth. He missed his best friend dearly, but there wasn't any helping it now that he was on the run. The reminder that he'd likely never see the man again let Waylon's face fall once more into its gloomy, anxious state.

His phone rings.

Reluctant, Waylon fishes the disposable out of his pocket and holds it to his ear, "...Hello?"

_"There you are, Mr. Park. I thought we'd lost you for good."_

A sharp icicle of fear spears through him, and all the life drains from his frail body. He crumbles to his knees in the piles of developing snow and pulls his legs in close in a shivery fetal position against a chain-link fence. Shakily, his hand still holds the phone to his ear. A small "How did you get this number" soon fades into silence on his end. The caller takes this as a chance to start talking. _"I don't want to hurt you or your friends, Mr. Park, so I want you to cooperate, understand?"_ a pause, _"Nod if you understand."_ Waylon nodded, unable to make himself do anything else. 

 _"Now, if you look to your right, you'll see a Walmart. Do you see it?"_  
Another nod.

_"I want you to stand up and walk into the Walmart. When you're in there, you're going to buy a few things, yeah?"_

Waylon glanced around, attempting to look for where the caller could possibly be watching him from. There were only parking lots filled with cars and cheap motels. He could be anywhere.

"...okay."

_"You're going to go in. Once you're inside you're going to go to the Men's clothing section. You're going to pick up a few pairs of jeans and shirts and wait there about five minutes. After five minutes, another man is going to find you, and you're going to play nice, alright?"_

Waylon is silent.

 _"Are we clear, Mr. Park?"_ The dangerous edge to his voice is unmistakable. Waylon nods. The caller doesn't give another response to his actions before hanging up, leaving the tech alone with his thoughts and alone trying to formulate some sort of plan to get his ass out of this situation. He considered calling Tracy, but chances are the caller would see him. Which raised another question- how did the caller even call in the first place? Nobody knew the number except the driver, himself, and Miles, so far as any of them were aware. He thought hard on it while he sped toward the Walmart, eager to be within the company of other human beings. 

The tech rushes past the electric sliding door with a sharp breath of air, glancing around desperately to find cover, or even a way out that wasn't the front. He caught sight of the gardening section and bolted in its direction, immediately stopping and steering away when he caught sight of a man leaning against the wide doorway. He stuck out. Dressed nicely in slacks and a waistcoat, arms folded across his chest, head down, eyes boring directly into Waylon's. The tech walked briskly in another direction, holding himself. His stomach was tight with dread.

_Oh....god..._

Thankfully, nobody was in the men's section. Waylon did as he was told and scooped up a pair of jeans, pretending to browse the racks of shirts, while he was really looking for, praying for an escape. The man from the Garden section grew closer every minute. Every-so-often, Waylon would look up and he'd advanced a few paces, or moved closer an aisle. Something. Whoever he was, the man was closing in quick when Waylon finally sought the fire exit- a run from his current position, unfortunately, but it was worth a shot. It was unguarded, and better- it would cause alarm.

Waylon wiped the sheen of sweat off his forehead with a cotton shirt, eyes darting between the man and the exit. It wouldn't take long to get there, but the man was close to him now. Too close. Waylon pretended to stroll to another rack, farther from the man and closer to the door. More sweat to wipe. He tried to stay calm, taking slow, deep breaths, but eventually his demeanor cracked and he started to hyperventilate. The man in the waistcoat was still looking at him, a foot closer than when Waylon had last checked on him. The shadows around his mouth were warped, a large smile on his lips.

The world blurred a bit. Waylon covered his mouth and attempted to slow his breath down. A few moments of deep breaths steadied him again, and he checked the man- 

No smile. Just an illusion. The tech kept eye contact with the man for a moment before taking off in the direction of the door. Loud footfalls behind told Waylon that the man was following him- chasing him -and the thought didn't help. He dropped the jeans and shirts, sprinting toward the exit like a madman. A gunshot rang out. Then another. And another. 

Large chunks were taken out of the wall. People were screaming and scattering. A bullet whistled past Waylon's ear, tearing right through a shelf of canned goods, exploding preserved vegetables all over the linoleum floor. The tech skirted a puddle of beans and gunpowder and darted down another aisle.

_Holy shit that fucker's fast!_

He leapt the final distance to the emergency door and shoved against it, stumbling out and falling to the asphalt. Snow fluttered onto his nose and cheeks. He could barely hear the loud screams of the alarm and the approaching sirens over his heartbeats- frantic and sputtering. The door was closing, but he could see the man aiming his gun through it, catching up, almost upon him. Waylon scrambled to his feet and took off in the direction of the motel, feet scraping the sidewalk so hard that he swore he could feel the gravely surface cutting through the soles into his skin.

One more shot. Waylon didn't see where it went, but a warm pain spreading through his shoulder confirmed the worst. He'd been hit.

 ** _"Tracy!"_** He screeched as he darted into the parking lot of the motel, _**"MILES! TRACY!"**_ The driver was upon him almost immediately, arm wrapping around him, pistol in his unoccupied hand. He aimed it in the direction that the man would come from, but he never showed; Tracy ushered Waylon inside, unwilling to let the man get the drop on them and find out which of the motel rooms they were staying in. The tech was gripping his shoulder, shock mixing with enough adrenaline to make sure whatever pain was gleaned from the wound was scarce felt. At least...until it wore off.

Blood soaked his shoulder, but Waylon was fast to get ready- grabbing up his backpack and the untouched bag of donut holes from before while Miles applied pressure to the wound. Tracy had his pistol aimed out the window, just waiting for the fuck to show.

And show he did. With friends.

"Shit." Tracy cursed, pulling the curtains closed, "Shit, shit, shit!"

"What's going on?" Waylon asked, holding his shoulder with a now-bloodied hand. Miles kept pressure on it, silent as ever, artificial eyes blank, as per the usual. Tracy cracked his knuckles and began to pace, repeating over and over his mantra of 'shit, shit, shit'. He only looked at Waylon, without answering the question. It happened that Tracy- the wonder driver -was just in the dark as he was. Without warning, Tracy cocked his pistol and pulled  curtain aside again.

"Cover your ears." He mumbles.

And pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not apologize for this cliffhanger


	3. Relapse

**Bang!**  Came the first gunshot, ringing through Waylon's ears. Three more shots followed, the rumbling pitter-patter of bullets chewing up stucco echoing in response to the barking of Tracy's handgun. The tech sunk to the scuffed wood floor, shaking hands clenched into fists. Blood gushed unhindered down his arm and to the ground, warm streams veining down his arms like red paint that had been sitting in the Nevada sun. Snow danced gently to the ground outside the motel window, leaving frost on the glass in abstract, spiky patterns. Waylon kept his eyes centered on the icy designs, edges of his reality slowly blurring, eating up his clear sight toward the middle.

He closed his eyes and used his remaining strength to cover his ears, face relaxing at the soothing muffle his palms provided. Waylon's ears ached from within, throbbing and pounding in protest to the loud noise. Miles had seemingly disappeared up until the time Waylon once again felt hands on him. Fingers knotted into his shirt from behind, a set of foreign forearms digging into his armpits. He felt the ground give way beneath all of him but the heels of his shoes, dragging him further and further away from the loud, unhindered noise. Waylon's feet lifted a bit more off the floor, a hard, knee-height barrier driving into the back of his knees. He was soon dragged over it, the hands lowering him gently into a warped, narrow space.

There was the faint _clump_ of a door shutting before Miles finally spoke. "Jesus, Waylon." A few heavy steps on linoleum, the cracking, plasticky floor groaning underneath his counterpart's weight. In a bitter, mocking tone, he mumbled a "Heavier than you look. Little cardio wouldn't kill ya." and was cut off by the shriek of metal-on-metal. Cold water sprayed over Waylon, slightly rousing him. He cracked his eyes open and looked at Miles, who was perched on the edge of the tub like a feline. Static clouds crackled around his features, illuminating them dramatically. "Awake now, Waylon? Good, because we need to get the hell out of here. I'm not going to let some corporate asshole filet me. Not after I've risked so much to bring them down. Now get up. We have to go."

"What about...Tracy?" Waylon's tongue was numb and felt like a heavy stone in his mouth. He found that he couldn't keep his eyes on the reporter, his gaze bouncing around the bathroom warily. His shoulder had left a dripping blood trail, which smeared all over the doorknob and left fairly accurate circular patterns on the linoleum floor; he was in the bathtub, that much was evident, and it looked like Miles was trying to force a window above the shower open. He rammed his shoulder against it, balancing precariously on the edge of the tub before finally he  shoved the glass pane out of its frame and sent glass in shards all over...wherever it was that was behind the motel.  
"Fuck Tracy." 

"But...He's helped us, so far." The tech warily watches his blood curl in the water toward the drain, his stomach starting to turn. He'd felt an aversion to most bodily fluids since that night. Waylon's face was already drained of color, but it seemed to grow even paler. Without another breath, Waylon turned his head to the side and puked up the coffee from earlier this very morning. Miles looked concerned, but not quite enough to ask if the tech was okay, instead opting to offer his hand.  
Waylon took it, but Miles had to pull him up. He was pretty unsteady on his feet. "He'll catch up, Waylon. We need to help ourselves right now. Can you climb through the window?"

"I...don't know." He leaned on Miles, looking up at the opening to the outside world.

"Let's try it, okay?" Miles gives him a good-natured pat on the back and helps him to step up onto the ledge of the tub, water making their escape slick and clumsy. Waylon's feet gave out from under him and he tumbled back into the pit of the tub. The tech leaned his head against the wall of the tub and retched once again, legs starting to tremble. His tongue, although numb, tasted bitterly of bile and soured coffee. "I don't think I can do it, Miles..."

"Come on, Park." He murmurs, tugging Waylon back up by the bicep. They tried one more time to keep him on the ledge of the tub, and somewhat succeeded, Waylon having a grip on the window frame before his feet could give out beneath him. He managed to get himself up about halfway over the sill before Miles got under his remaining midsection and pushed it upwards, Waylon's weight pulling him the rest of the way out of the bathroom. The tech fell face-first into a narrow alleyway, barely missing the shards of glass strewn about. Miles got out of the bathroom window more easily than he did, landing on both feet in a crouch right beside his companion. It seemed as though he were about to suggest that Waylon take his arm again to help him up when another face appeared.

Tracy scrambled over the sill and landed roughly in a pile of glass shards, a few of them sticking shallowly into his skin. A long groan left his lips before he glanced over at his two travel buddies, giving a thumbs-up and a weak, breathy, "I'm okay."

Waylon rasped out a small, "That's good" in return before closing his eyes again. He could feel the strength draining out of him slowly, the blood pooling beneath him. Strong hands gripped his shirt and pulled him into a sitting stance before it was traded for a sharp bone to the stomach. Another long sound of pain left him, but it wasn't the end.  The gunshots had grown silent in favor of shouting men and police sirens fast approaching; Waylon's head smacked into Tracy's back as he ran alongside Miles, static shooting off his delicate, but masculine form in electric bursts. The tech's eyelids felt like thousand ton weights but he wrenched his eyes open to look around.

Men were chasing them now. He took a good look at their Blue and Grey uniform armor, noting that they were...flickering. One moment, these burly soldiers were chasing them, and then the next, a legion of patients were sprinting at them. Waylon's eyes widened, his breath speeding up. He violently hammered Tracy's back, screaming at him through tears for him to go faster. "They're going to catch us!" He shrieked, battering Tracy. Burly men in brown jumpsuits filled the alley, and more were flooding in. Their faces were twisted- grotesque maws sewn shut, their teeth protruding the skin. Rashes and redness formed growths on their temples, skin stretching over the inhuman mutations.

More gunshots ring out. The walls on either side of them come to life, shedding their rough skin in favor of the wood and drywall beneath. In moments the alley was transformed to a narrow hall, bloodspattered walls printed with bullet holes and words. Lazy, clumsily painted directions. **_DOWN THE DRAIN._** Another wordless scream left Waylon's mouth. And then suddenly Miles skids to a halt. Tracy is about two yards ahead when he slows to a stop as well. Waylon's eyes scrunch closed once again. "Miles!" comes Tracy's voice, shaky and breathless,  though still aflame with worry "What the hell are you doing? _There are people chasing us!"_

"It's okay." The reporter breathed, "I'll catch up. Go."

"You crazy fuck! You're going to get yourself killed!"

 _"Just go!"_ Miles snapped, and Tracy did. Waylon could feel the hesitance in his first few strides, slow and unsure until they started to pick up the pace again. The tech strained to listen for what would happen to Miles, and was met with the terrified screams of...more than one man. He listened in horror, trying to pick out Miles' screams out among the rest but he was utterly....silent. Static explosions and the wet sounds of flesh being ripped from bone intermingled with screams that did not belong to Miles Upshur. Waylon buried his face into Tracy's tattered shirt and let the screams fade into silence.

Deafening silence.

_The morning sun splashes on his face from a unbroken window, lighting Jeremy's harried features in gold and the palate of autumn leaves. He's crumpled against the doorframe, arms crossed to both hold his bleeding side and hide the knife in his hand. The executive's eyes dart from left to right before spotting him. Waylon is leaned against the doorway connecting the Administration block to the Male Ward, leg crippled beyond recognition; Their eyes meet before the silence breaks and Jeremy puts on his final charade- And smiles. "Mr. Park..." A soft chuckle, "How the fuck are you still alive..? Hah..."_

_"Let's....make a deal? Y-You help me...I'll....help you." He extends a hand in Waylon's direction as the tech advances forward, multiple fingers missing. "Ah- Help me up. Please?" The lilt to the last word finally breaks him, Waylon hobbles toward him fast as he can, bringing himself closer. Waylon's mind reels with confliction. Anger, for being committed. Caution, knowing Jeremy Blaire. And yet....He's forgiving. His hand flies out to meet Jeremy's before he even closes the two yard gap between them. Jeremy's smile still remains, turning from weak to almost snakelike, "God....I'm stuck like a pig."_

_Waylon hesitates a moment, preparing to pull his hand back when Jeremy's fingers latch onto his wrist and pull him close enough to bury a shiny blade into his stomach. "Fucking **DIE** already!" There is a moment...in the mass confusion of the moment where he cannot look away from the heartless smile that is suddenly wrenched from Jeremy's face when the pain of his own wound spikes through him. A few tears bead on his eyelashes. Voice shaking with pain and anger, the man screeches. "No one can know. No...one..." _ _Blood poured from between his fingers, knotted deeply into his jacket and button-up. Once expensive fabrics turned carelessly to rags with rips and blood and dirt. His knife hand trembled, blade flickering with light and shimmering with red. He looks up, but doesn't meet Waylon's eyes. Instead he looks past, past to where a black cloud extends its welcoming tendrils of darkness._

_"oh, god....what the fu-"_

_The humming creature passes him, choosing to grab Jeremy by the shirt, shake him around, and then force him up into the ceiling for his final moment. Their eyes meet once again. Jeremy looks into Waylon's with an emotion he's never seen before on his boss' face: regret. Remorse. Apology. All of this plays out in the single second before Jeremy implodes and his guts are splattered all over._ _It's the most honest he's ever seen the other man. The most honest that anybody will ever see him. Waylon keeps that close to his heart as he slowly climbs back up to his feet, and finally leaves this awful place for good. Or....so he believes at the time._

-

Beep....Beep....Beep...

Waylon's eyes don't open immediately after he wakes. He sits in the darkness...eyes closed...Listening to the familiar sound of the beep beep beeping heart monitor....and remembering. Little Peter, with his toothy smile and doe eyes, looking up at him and Lisa from the hospital bed, perfectly alive and yet still he remembers the fear. The surgery to repair his son's palate was very low-risk, but he still worried. What if there were complications? Waylon worried so fervently for his son in that room, listening to the beep beep beeping. And now here he is... in his son's place. In a hospital bed.

The beeping noises are his own.

He misses Peter. And John. And Lisa.  He wants to hold his sons again, and sleep next to his wife, despite the nightmares making him thrash and wake her up. Waylon wants to watch his little son's fingers frantically signing 'I love you's' as he walks to get on the bus to go to school. Tears flow from his closed eyes, and he wipes them, hoping....praying, even...to wake up at home.  ** _All of this is a dream. Let this all be a dream._** He's drowning. Waylon fights the water flowing out of his eyes, filling his lungs and crushing his chest with an iron vice. And then...He opens his eyes. It's a hospital room, dark and sterile. The sheets are too cold, they smell like sickness. He hates them.

"Wa- _Alex_...My god, are you _crying?"_ Asks a voice. Waylon doesn't care enough to identify it. Again he wipes the moisture on his cheeks, eyes closing once again. A hand finds his and pulls it off his face, setting it down beside him, palm down on the cool sheets. Softer, this time, barely a whisper, _"Waylon...?"_ It's Miles. He seems concerned, and it's the first that he's heard the man sound that way. It's hard to believe that they've  only known each other for a few days, how he feels in the moment. It's as if they've known each other for years already. Waylon's eyes open at last, looking up into Miles' weathered features. Relief plays out in his expression, and the man leans out of sight.

Waylon follows him with his gaze. The reporter seats himself in a blue vinyl chair, brushing a strand of his black hair off his forehead, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're crying." Miles folds his hands in his lap, twiddling his thumbs. He hadn't noticed it before, but Miles was throwing off sparks, lighting up the room erratically. Waylon rubs his eyes and attempts to sit up, immediately deterred by the ripping pain in his shoulder. A long strand of curses left him before he fell back onto the pillow, furrowing his brows. Miles leans from his chair to press the call button. "Nurse, I think Mr. Lafayette will need more painkillers."  A moment before a grainy response came through, and a Nurse pushed through the door with a cart.  
"I see that you finally woke up." she gives him a warm smile and picks up a syringe, "You've been asleep for a while, Mr. Lafayette."

The fake name makes Waylon sick to his stomach, but he forces a smile in return. Her smile remains, crooked and unsettling. Uncomfortable, Waylon scoots as far away from the woman as his shoulder will allow. "How long have I been asleep...?"

"A week. Give or take a few hours." Murmurs Miles, before the Nurse can respond. "Tracy's in the next room over. Broke his arm falling out of the window, cut himself pretty bad. I signed his cast for you."

"Oh." 

Waylon's unsettled expression melted into a frown, watching the creepy Nurse inject a clear liquid into his IV to help numb the pain in his shoulder. His gaze flicks from Miles to the stocky-looking woman, feeling the pain slowly leech out of him in the moments following. His eyelids drooped and darkness once again crept into his mind, this time imprinted with the inkblot hallucination. Static tests of his sanity. He exhaled slowly and attempted to banish the imprints with happy thoughts. Seeing Lisa again, the exhilarating feeling he got when Eddie Gluskin was dragged up into the rafters, his brief return home. The pleasant thoughts swept him back underwater, where cool, heavy silence chased away the monsters.

 _Black fingers wrapped around his throat, choking, strangling the life out of him. The soft hum of the walrider- static and musical, the fresh breath of a newborn swarm. Blood spattered the plastic walls, dripping over piles of intestines and viscera.  In the distance, Waylon shuddered to hear the violent screams of a man."FEED ME! FEED ME!"  
_ The monsters remain, even under the gentle dark he found in that Hospital bed. Frank Manera... He'd feared Frank especially. Besides Eddie, he was the most relentless in the chasing and the attempting to gut him. The beeping started again, and, mistaking it for the noises his camcorder had made when in need of batteries, reached for his pocket to fish one out, and found only his hospital dress instead. He frowned, patting his waist a moment before reality finally washed over him again. What quiet peacefulness he'd achieved earlier was gone, only fear remaining.

The hallucinations and nightmares had been better before he embarked on this 'adventure' with Miles and Tracy. At least then he had been able to sleep through the night. Now..now it wasn't so. It was still dark in his hospital room when he woke up again, Miles was asleep in his vinyl chair and the pain medication had worn off some, but the soreness in his shoulder was somewhat tame. Waylon sat up in bed, throwing back the sheets with renewed vigor. Miles roused slightly, mumbling soft, static nothings before settling again. Waylon gave his sleeping form a half smile, tossing his legs over the side of the bed. Tubes stuck from his arm, and slowly he started to pick them off. The holes where the tubes were stuck in sang. Burning. Waylon grit his teeth to avoid screaming, holding his arms crossed over his chest.

Tears stung in his eyes, but he wiped them away and attempted to stand. Having not used his legs in a week now, Waylon stumbled to the floor when he first tried. Miles' eyes opened. "Waylon? What the hell are you doing?" He started to lean down to reach for Waylon, but the tech batted his hands away and used the bed to pull himself back up. "Go back to sleep, Miles." Waylon breathed, holding his shoulder. "I just want to walk around a little bit." The machines blaring, announcing his death, brought the creepy Nurse back into the room with a handful of her coworkers. Miles grabbed for him again, "Alex, you need to sit down."

Again with the fake name. Waylon wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "I want to see Tracy."

"When you're better." A burly looking nurse advanced closer. Waylon took a few steps back. "Mr. Lafayette, please lay down. You aren't healed enough yet."

Miles stood and took his place by the burly male Nurse, hands reaching out to Waylon in order to grab him when close enough. Waylon backed up into a wall and inched his way toward the window, which looked out over the Vegas skyline. Casinos rose up into the night, blaring music and sparkling lights. His hand splayed out on the cool glass, spiking the alarm in Miles' eyes. A loud scream from behind them. One of the nurses sprinted through the room from the hall, knife raised above his head. Waylon pulled the window open, undeterred by the fervent pleading of Miles and the few peaceful nurses. The crazy man shoved past the burly one with the needle.

Waylon screamed and tried to scramble out the window. Miles grabbed the back of his hospital dress and kept fumbling for him, fending off the crazed nurse with one arm. The other Nurses helped detain both of them, plunging the needle of calming fluid into Waylon's shoulder and wrestling the armed Nurse to the ground. The last thing Waylon can remember is feeling Miles' arms around him while the sedative worked its magic, both comforting and forming a cage around him. He didn't fully fall asleep, however. But instead his eyes closed and he listened. The Nurse from earlier was speaking. "The police are on their way, Mr. Smith." 

Miles answered with a calm, "Thank you."

An unfamiliar voice filled the room. Low and smoky, save for the slight German lilt. It was the voice from the phone call a week ago, the one telling him to go into the Walmart. "I know who you are, Miles Upshur. I know your friends, too. That's Waylon Park in your arms."

Silence.

_"Don't turn me in. I can help you."_

"How do you know my name?"

"If you hadn't guessed by now, I'm with Murkoff." The voice murmured, "I can help you. Don't turn me in. I can be of use...I promise." Another long silence before Miles made a slight noise of acknowledgement. "Prove it. How can you help us?"

"I can tell you that you aren't safe. Murkoff is watching your every move. I was supposed to kill you both, but unfortunately that Tracy fellow hindered my efforts." 

"What did you do to him?"

The man chuckled quietly, "He should be suffering from Nicotine poisoning right now."

Miles quivered beneath Waylon, making soft sniffling noises. Even in his foggy state, Waylon managed to hold on to him tighter.

"...We won't help you. No."

"Mr. Upshur, please. I can give you information."

_**"FUCK YOUR INFORMATION! YOU KILLED TRACY!"** _

Another chuckle. "What if I told you that it wasn't me who killed him? It wasn't personal. It was merely business. I had orders from somebody very special, you know."  
 _"Who?"_

"A little man you know very well." His laughter was dark and humorless.

"Tell me." Miles pleaded.  
"Don't turn me in, then. You help me, I'll help you."

**"Fine."**

A pause, as if for dramatic effect. The man's laughter subsides.

_"Your little friend. Julian."_


End file.
